


Heat.

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Series: The Demon and the Bluebird [3]
Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/M, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, dantes' relationship w/ da vinci lily is father-daughter please keep that in mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27195184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: Chaldea came first, which was precisely why Avenger could not trust any of the Servants with these matters. It was the Count they needed among their ranks, and the Count was a creature whose power was drawn from being untouchable. If he permitted anyone to know of his weaknesses, he’d surely be stripped of his defenses, forced to bare the pathetic flaws of his body and soul.No. No one could be trusted with such intimacy. Never again. He learned his lesson long ago and would rather rely on his own hands.---Dantes copes with the difficulties of being an Avenger, the trauma of his legacy, and learns, little by little, what it means to live again.
Relationships: Hans Christian Andersen | Caster/Edmond Dantès | Avenger, Leonardo da Vinci | Caster/Edmond Dantès | Avenger
Series: The Demon and the Bluebird [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778374
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	Heat.

**Author's Note:**

> loosely tied to [the mermaid's tears](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371882/chapters/64233337), though you don't need to have read it to get the full gist of this fic. this is my first attempt at writing smut in a while, so i hope it's ok :'^)

A Servant’s body mirrored its human counterpart, stripped of all needs yet still riddled by wants. Avenger despised the shortcomings and torments of his form: how his exhausted mind craved the numbing fog of hashish; how the cruel whispers of his spirit core set every nerve along his fingers alight with an ache for violence; how even as he held himself with an iron will, there remained the trickles of a beastial thirst that swelled into a flood, no matter how great the dam within or how recklessly he abused himself.

The Count of Monte Cristo was an indomitable force. He should be above burning desires to touch and to be touched, no matter how hot they ran through his veins. If he was capable of turning off pain, then surely this cursed body would permit him to suffocate lust.

And again, fate laughed at him and denied him even this smallest of reprieves.

The man pressed against the wall was already a mess, much to Avenger’s annoyance. The darkness of this miserable, cramped garden shed could hide nothing from eyes honed by years of imprisonment. He could see how the ragged robe slipped down his companion’s arm, baring the pale flesh of his shoulder, how the tip of his cock was already slick and glistening with precum that dribbled along the calloused bumps of his fist. At this rate, the man would soon hit his limit.

Avenger himself stood a measured distance away, fully clothed in a missionary’s black robe, unsmiling. Outwardly, he took in the miserable sight with lidded eyes and the mindless disregard one had when ashing their cigarette. Why shouldn’t he? The heat inside that choked out his reason and made even the sensation of cloth against his skin unbearable was poison that needed to be flushed out, carefully and precisely, so that only the Count remained.

“I didn’t say to stop,” Avenger said quietly.

“Father, please…”

“This was our agreement.” His words cracked like a whip and he could see the man’s cock twitch in response. Hell, he had to be careful, least he overexcited him. “Keep touching yourself.”

“… yes, Father.”

Chaldea came first, which was precisely why Avenger could not trust any of the Servants with these matters. It was the Count they needed among their ranks, and the Count was a creature whose power was drawn from being untouchable. If he permitted anyone to know of his weaknesses, he’d surely be stripped of his defenses, forced to bare the pathetic flaws of his body and soul.

No. No one could be trusted with such intimacy. Never again. He learned his lesson long ago and would rather rely on his own hands.

So he waited. Waited until Ibaraki was felled at last and the demon fog was lifted – when the villagers gathered to celebrate the joyous occasion. Only then did Avenger permit himself to slip through the crowds, disguised as a humble missionary, to find himself a stranger to whittle down his appetite with and to forget.

Edmond Dantes would have sat down with the stranger with a smile and drink. He would have taken the chance to laugh and sing and talk of their respective homes, would have loved to learn how life was lived in these foreign lands. He would have asked the man for his name, to remember him by after this singularity was reset.

But Edmond Dantes was not here. Avenger was.

A whimper slipped from the man as he pumped his fist, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Something about the sound coupled with the wet slap of flesh against flesh burned hot between Avenger’s thighs, sent an electric shiver crackling over his skin – and there it was, that hungry hollowness deep in his gut, begging to be filled. Avenger breathed in sharply through his nose.

“Stop,” Avenger muttered. “Put your hands down. Turn around.”

No sooner had the man obeyed than Avenger pressed his body flushed against him, gloved hands lifting the robe’s hem to squeeze the thighs beneath. He heard a moan, felt the man arch against him, the muscles tensing in response to the touch. He leaned in to whisper into his sunburnt ear: “Beg for me.”

Gentleness had no place here. All of this – the slick heat stoked between them by a violent rhythm, the gasps Avenger stifled by biting down on salty skin – was only the result of a fragment that shouldn’t exist in a demon. The act was finished the moment the hot tension coiled in him finally released, spilling over. No further reason to linger, when the two of them were only brought together to use each other.

But as Avenger tidied himself up, he could not help but notice how the man’s legs shook, how he seemed to still be riding on a hazy aftermath. A small ember sparked in him. Perhaps he could give him a word of thanks for this little rendezvous, that though they would never meet again, they could part knowing they had well satisfied each other.

And then the man reached out for him.

The ember went out.

Avenger pulled away and slipped out. He shut the door behind him without so much as a second look.

* * *

Upon his return to Chaldea, Avenger locked himself in the simulator room. Werewolves, giants, demons, ogres, it mattered not. He tore away the vestiges of humanity from himself and lit it aflame with the seething hatred pouring from his Saint Graph.

The Count of Monte Cristo could not be touched while he was cloaked in hellfire.

The Count of Monte Cristo could not feel while he tore his enemies apart, limb by limb.

This, he repeated to himself as he killed and killed and killed, unceasing until his body once again betrayed him with its bleeding knuckles and buckling knees, fatigue breaking over him like a cold, wicked tide.

* * *

Over the course of the next few months with Chaldea, Avenger became aware of da Vinci.

No, that was not quite right. It was impossible to ignore the _uomo universale_ , who handled all crises with a serene grace and smile. Her presence was everywhere: in the equipment they desperately relied on, over the intercom as a series of assuring commands, through the little additions that made life on the base more bearable, such as a working coffee machine or a new pack of cigarettes.

Rather, the constancy of her presence brought to light the smallest of details that would normally be overlooked. How often she smiled, for example, and how many of those smiles reached her eyes. The subtle ways her face softened when she looked towards Dr. Archaman. And above all, how _she_ was becoming aware of Avenger as well. There were always certain corridors and rooms kept forever dark, books surreptitiously stacked along the pathways he frequented. His observations were proven correct when he found a letter tucked within a paperback novel – a bold request only someone with da Vinci’s confidence could make.

It was better for him to remain in the dark, where he belonged.

Instead, Avenger went to her room.

Da Vinci’s room was at the very back of her workshop, hidden out of sight by large draperies and blank canvases. The door was already cracked open, casting a sliver of light across the dark floor. Avenger could hear music, a soft piano melody that rose and fall with a swan’s grace. He hesitated before the light.

“Don’t be shy,” da Vinci called from within. “Come in, come in!”

Avenger could not ignore a direct invitation. A demon he may be, but he retained some semblance of manners. He entered and allowed his cape and hat to melt away in the light. “Shyness is not the root of my reluctance,” he said humbly. “Rather, it is the knowledge that shadows such as I have no place in so bright an abode.”

“Oh dear, do you really talk like that all the time?” Da Vinci laughed. “It must be exhausting to keep up. Here, I have some good wine. I’m sure a man of your standing will appreciate it.”

“I would be delighted.”

Da Vinci poured them both a glass of red wine before kicking back in her seat. She had dressed down for the ocassion: slim pants and a white blouse with its uppermost buttons undone, exposing her fine collarbones. Her hair was pulled into a loose and messy bun by a surprisingly childish hair tie topped with a strawberry.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said. “Part of me didn’t expect you to show up.”

“You think I would refuse an invitation so rudely?”

“Yes. You’re an absolute gentleman now, but I’ve seen your temper.”

Avenger grinned with all his teeth. “Interesting. And after all you’ve seen, you still sought my company?”

“What can I say?” Da Vinci raised her wineglass with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m a genius who loves a good thrill.”

 _Careful_ , his spiritual core whispered to him. _Do not become too comfortable. You may laugh and banter as you please, but smiles cannot erase the fact that you are poison._ _You are the bearer of hell’s curses. That is who you were summoned to be._

Avenger closed his eyes, letting those words wash over him. He brought his own glass to his lips and drank deeply, though he knew this paltry amount couldn’t overcome his damnable resistance. Only when he set the glass down did he speak. “Forgive my bluntness, but you called me here to accommodate your needs, not for a romance. I’m afraid I don’t have the patience for all of…” His eyes cracked open and examined the room with lazy disdain, at the gramophone, the fine china, the light that was much too soft for someone like him. “… this.”

Most people would be offended. He was counting on that. Da Vinci only arched her eyebrows and took a sip of her wine. “You really know how to talk to women. Well, since we’re being honest, I’ll say it straight out. If it was only about my needs, I’d play around with one of my toys. I guarantee they’d outperform you any day.”

“… you truly did not need to tell me about your private pleasures.”

“Are you kidding me? What’s with that look? You’re the one who’s here for sex! Goodness, shut up, I’m still talking.” Da Vinci waggled a finger. “I want to talk to you, Avenger, then fool around. That’s the sort of woman I am.”

The set of her mouth told Avenger everything. She was an immovable object, best to be circled around than to be met head-on. But she asked for the impossible. There was no part of him that remembered how to be soft, how to speak quiet words into a lover’s ear, how to caress another with the intent to remember every inch of them. Were it not for his body’s weaknesses – the rampant yearning searing in his chest – Avenger would’ve shredded her invitation into nothing.

“Very well,” he said at last, low and controlled. He leaned forward on the table. “Let’s talk.”

* * *

Da Vinci was unique among Heroic Spirits, for her body was built to her ideal. The silken hair that fell over her bare chest like a fine veil; the toned muscles of her abdomen and inner thighs; the slender build of her hands, which curled into Avenger’s greyed hair as he pressed kisses to her stomach. She must be aware of the privilege she possessed, to have chosen her form in a bold rejection of the Holy Grail’s influence, to instead shape herself after her own creation.

The envy Avenger felt nearly choked him.

“You’re pretty gentle for a demon.”

“Shall I prove you otherwise?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. I think I like the view from here.”

They had talked, in a sense. Da Vinci needled him for information about a man who no longer had the right to exist, and Avenger denied her with calm redirection. Chemistry, literature, art – all these were easier to discuss than a man murdered by his own story.

When he rose from his seat, she went to him. Touched him on the arm and said, in the gentlest of tones, “What you feel is nothing to be ashamed of. And I promise you, I won’t breathe a word about this after tonight.”

“I feel nothing but hatred,” Avenger answered her quietly. “What you think I feel is yours alone.”

What use was lust for a weapon? What use was this yearning for touch and gentleness when something like him was destined only for violence? The fingers in his hair reminded him of a woman from long ago with a laugh as wild as the sea. The memory hurt more than any blade, and he fervently prayed to forget in the heat of da Vinci’s body.

Da Vinci sat before him on the bed in only her lace panties, her legs spread wide open by his gloved hands. She laughed. “What, are you worried about damaging the art? You’re the sort to leave the lights off, aren’t you?”

“Does my remaining clothed displease you?” He knelt and let one of his hands trace up along the thigh, so his thumb could press lightly on the spot where her clit was. He felt her tense in anticipation beneath his grip.

“I’m an artist. What do you think?” Her hands still stroked his head, her fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp. Avenger couldn’t bear it any longer. With his free hand, he snatched her by the wrist. “Whoa there, big guy, I didn’t say you could paw—”

Avenger kissed her hard to steal the rest of her words. There was more she wanted to say. He could tell by the soft sound that escaped her, how her fingers curled into her palm, but he would not grant her the chance. With slow, steady pressure, he began to massage her clit with the confident movements of someone well-experienced. Da Vinci shuddered against him and broke off the kiss.

“You play dirty,” she said, and he could not help feeling pleased at how breathless she sounded.

“You should relax, _signorina_. Trust me to take care of you.”

“And what about you?”

“One thing at a time,” Avenger answered, his hand still working her. If there were any objections, he silenced them by kissing her neck, teeth grazing against the heated skin. The whine that escaped her buzzed beneath his lips. “Don’t touch me until I’ve finished with you.”

“You really think you’ve got what it takes to please me?” da Vinci murmured into his ear.

“Would you have invited me if you thought otherwise?”

“I’m a scientist as much as an artist. Maybe I wanted to test a hypothesis.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I am the Count of Monte Cristo. Banality is beneath me.”

When he let go, her hand dropped to the bed. Good. Avenger could now focus on the act itself, quash all other emotions as he exorcised the fever inside both of them. His fingers slipped a little lower and found the fabric warmer, made more pliable by a wetness that hadn’t been there before. Da Vinci’s breathing hitched. He had observed her long enough at the dinner table to know not to push in, to simply keep his hand where it was – the promise of more, a touch on the edge of satisfaction.

Da Vinci tilted her head back, chest rising and falling a little faster. Her fingers twisted the sheets. “Don’t tease,” she mumbled.

On his knees, Avenger could see every inch of her, from her head to her toes. All of it was perfect because it was hers, untouched by anyone else. To think someone like him would be allowed to lay hands on such purity—

“They say the French know how to enjoy their meals.” Avenger pushed in the very tips of his fingers and shifted his hand, so his palm could rub her clit. Da Vinci gasped and jerked her hips in response. “There’s some merit to that. You must allow the flavor to linger, _signorina_ , for if you rush you will ruin the experience.”

“You’re insufferable.” Without warning, her foot slipped up and between his legs. It brushed against the tented fabric, sending a shudder of pleasure shaking its way through him. “All this talk about food and you won’t eat me out?”

Avenger closed his eyes and stilled his hand. “I told you not to touch me.”

“Take off your pants and I’ll take off mine.” He felt the soft brush of her hair against his cheek. Her words were a hot breath as she whispered: “A fair deal, don’t you think?”

It was natural that she’d want to see him as much as he got to see her. This was not a nameless encounter fated to be lost to a timeline’s reset. This was da Vinci – the woman who surreptitiously lent him books, knowing his distaste for unnecessary conversation; the woman who guided Chaldea with a firm but gentle hand; the woman who gushed with childlike enthusiasm over aerodynamics.

When did he know so much about her? How did he let himself become so close? _You’ve let your guard down_ , the Avenger’s core muttered, _you thought yourself human for the night_ , _and through her the rest of them will come to know your weaknesses as well._ An icy panic drenched Avenger. But he was still in control. He was in command of himself, could rein everything all in to prevent any of it from leaking—

“Hey. You alright?” Her touch against his cheek was feather-light—

( _—_ for when he came home after days at sea, mercedes would rush to him to ensure he was real, each of her touches a question, _is it you? is it really you?_ and, unaware of those watching, he let those affections be seen—)

—but Avenger’s soul recoiled. His eyes snapped open and he knew, by the way she looked at him, he’d tipped his hand.

“Forgive me,” he said with great strain. “I need a moment.”

Pity was nearly as bad. He did not deserve it—no, he did not want it, and if he met those eyes he knew what hateful sentiment he’d find dripping from them. That was all this arrangement was, wasn’t it? A show to soothe the troubled mind, assurance that the right thing was done in reaching out to the poor, lost soul that was Avenger. Well! He had no need of this charade and was a fool for coming to begin with!

Da Vinci said, “That’s more than fine. In fact, let’s take a break for coffee.”

“… what?”

“Coffee,” she said. “Get your hand off my pussy and I’ll make us some.”

* * *

It would be more dignified for Avenger to slip away into his shadow and whisk himself back to the safety of his room. The more seconds that ticked by, the stronger this urge grew, yet when da Vinci turned to get the coffee beans, he stayed. Maybe it was the earthen aroma of the beans. Maybe it was a weakness born from etiquette. Or maybe he truly had gone soft, ruined by the presence of company he should not enjoy.

Da Vinci set down two steaming mugs. She pulled out a chair and gestured him over with a calm smile. She had thrown on a thick, fluffy bathrobe which made her look closer to a kind aunt than the mischievous woman from earlier. “Not to brag, but I make a mean cup of coffee.”

He only gave a stiff nod before sitting down. Avenger didn’t trust himself to speak, not when his mind was in such disarray. Accepting the drink meant he was opening himself to conversation – to staying longer. Even as his heart recoiled from the idea, he raised the mug to his lips and took a sip.

Few things in this world warmed his chilled soul. The fires of vengeance burned with such viciousness that the scars left dulled Avenger to all other sensations. Joys were temporary, quickly darkened by traces of trouble. Companionship was something he must deny himself to remain who he was. It was ultimately the small pleasures he turned to, in the end, to sate the loneliness that lingered in his hollowed self. A good cigarette. A hefty book. A quiet prayer. And— a rich cup of coffee.

The drink went down smoothly, the perfect balance of bitter and sweet. Avenger couldn’t help himself. He took another sip, deeper this time, and it felt as though he’d risen from a good night’s sleep. “This is…”

“Good? I told you so.” Da Vinci sat across from him and winked. “I was never that interested in the cooking when I was alive. Too busy with other studies, you know. But Chaldea brings together people from all different time periods and countries. It got me thinking about the science of food.”

“A chef on top of everything else? You truly are universal.”

“Yes, yes, I know, hold your compliments until the end of my little story. I spent most of my life chasing after immortal beauty. Just look at my face. I got pretty close, don’t you think? Though, for all my intelligence, there was something crucial I overlooked. Coincidentally, this ‘something’ was why I had no interest in food at all.”

“And what was it?”

Da Vinci cupped her mug in her hands, her smile growing softer. “One who does not love humanity cannot grow as a human,” she said. “Food – that’s such a banal, fleeting creation, don’t you think? It changes from generation to generation, there’s no guarantee one recipe will survive the test of time untouched. It’s constantly mutating! It’s a pain to keep track of! But after all I’ve been through, I must confess. Food is one of the most human inventions our species has designed, because it comes from the heart. We invented food to feed the hunger in us that needed more than basic nutrition. Don’t you think that’s a form of love?”

Avenger understood. The proof lay in the drink between his hands, in the seat she set aside for him. “How can I argue otherwise when you’ve laid out your view so masterfully?” he said at last. “But I’m afraid your efforts are wasted. I am beyond love and hate.”

“Oh? And what does that mean?”

“That you are giving me something I cannot return. That human joys such as food no longer nourish my soul.”

In the corner, the gramophone continued its tinny, wistful melody. Da Vinci rested her chin upon her hand. “I don’t see you like that.”

“You think to know me better than I know myself?”

“Everyone has their blind spots. Even you and me. We can’t know everything about ourselves. Why else do we have mirrors?”

This was dangerous territory. Avenger should leave now, before she dug too deep. “I did not come to hear what you think I am.”

“I don’t _think_.” Da Vinci pouted. “I either know or – very rarely – don’t know. You weren’t summoned as a true demon. And to treat yourself as one…”

Deep within, the darkest part of him bared its fangs. White hot anger whipped through him and he slammed his hands on the table with the force of a storm. His mug overturned, coffee spilling everywhere. “I said to keep your assumptions to yourself!”

Da Vinci didn’t even flinch, nor did her smile waver. She simply narrowed her eyes. “If you don’t clean up this mess,” she said, steady as a sniper aiming at their target, “I will make a scene by throwing you out myself. You’re an Avenger. Your class has a temper, I get it. But never try to intimidate me again. Do you understand?”

 _Show her what you can really do_ , his core hissed. _Teach her a lesson._ Avenger swallowed the urge and clenched his fists.

“Solomon did not summon Edmond Dantes,” he said with great control. “Nor does Chaldea need—that man. What is the use of playing human when we are anything but? You speak of growing as a human, inventor. But I am merely a story, no, an excerpt. Though, I was finished long ago, I have been ripped from my own ending. You know _nothing_ , da Vinci, with your talk of love and beauty and smiles.”

Coffee gathered at the edges of the tablecloth and dripped upon the floor in relentless rhythm. And still, the gramophone played on. Alkan – he recognized the composer. He wished he didn’t. Why was he not a true mindless thing hellbent on destruction and violence? If only all of his memories had been properly hollowed out so he wasn’t this miserable, deformed creature. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down.

“Maybe I don’t know what you’re exactly feeling,” da Vinci said, “but I see a bit of myself in you. What do you see when you look at the Mona Lisa? Her smile, right?”

Avenger looked up. She met his eyes.

“Chaldea is a far cry from the King of Mages,” she continued. “Don’t punish yourself like I did. Now… clean up this mess. If you do a good enough job, I’ll let you go and we won’t ever speak of this again.”

* * *

In spite of his outburst, the books still came. True to her word, Da Vinci never broached the topic again, but there were moments when Avenger stood by her side and felt a strange weight on the tip of his tongue, a wild desire to speak about what he’d fought so hard to protect.

There were monsters in Chaldea, who he recognized as fellows. Jeanne d’Arc Alter. Gorgon. Ibaraki. He never consorted with them for he was not the sort to so brazenly approach others, though he always watched from afar. None of them could be humans, nor would they ever dream of playing human. Even so—

They all smiled far more within Chaldea’s halls.

—food was an embodiment of love, was it? One cup of coffee, then. Perhaps Avenger— no, Dantes— could start there.

* * *

There were two authors who frequently called upon Dantes: William Shakespeare and Hans Christian Andersen. Word of his brews reached their ears, no doubt an intentional slip on da Vinci’s part, and before long they became part of his daily schedule.

They were far more temperamental than the _uomo universale_ – and far pickier, as well.

“It’s passable,” Andersen said. “There’s too much sugar in it, though.”

“Last time you complained there was too little.”

“And that was last time. Now, there is too much.”

Stupid, petty problems seemed to be Andersen’s bread and butter and he seemed intent on sharing them with an exasperated Dantes. But irritation was better than rage. Preferable, even, for it released some of the heat embroiled in his chest. A shouting match over literary theory was safer than the bloodied knuckles of the training simulator.

And as for Shakespeare? The man’s ego matched his partner’s perfectly. He strutted as though the world were a stage and always watched Dantes with a smile in his eyes. Some days, it set his instincts on high alert, made his fingers yearn for the scalding touch of fire.

Could he call them his companions? No, Dantes decided, for he was closer to their waiter than a friend, and the distance of the label assured him.

“Let me tell you this, Dantes,” Andersen said. “Were William alive during my time, high society would’ve gnawed him down to his bones. He wouldn’t last a second with the Danes!”

Shakespeare chuckled. “A bold statement from a man spat upon by his own country. My status was so esteemed that I could have kissed the queen’s hand at my leisure. I am a natural socialite and romantic!”

“My expertise comes from my horrendous treatment. And I was a native! You, a foreigner, bearing the two traits Danes hate more than anything? A standout in every way? They’ll hammer you so hard you’ll be buried six feet under!”

“Forgive my partner.” Shakespeare winked at Dantes. “He is sensitive about being sensitive.”

“I am right _here_ , William.”

“Why, when Andersen first met me, he was so starstruck he could barely get a word out. Have you ever seen him quiet? I have. He was trying his very best to impress me—”

A book flew through the air. Dantes snatched it before it hit Shakespeare’s head. “Don’t take his side!” Andersen yowled.

“I am not taking anyone’s side,” Dantes said.

“I won’t stand for this slander. William, get off your ass, I have some words to exchange with you!”

And so it went. In the snap of a finger, the study could transform from a serene space into an author’s battlefield. As noisy as it was, there was a strange serenity in the chaos. Dantes couldn’t find fault in this arrangement. After all, he received free entertainment in exchange for his experimental coffee. Everyone was happy.

“Hey, Count,” Andersen said, having been banished to the sofa. “This question’s been bothering me for a while. About Dumas…”

Dantes looked at him with a blank stare, even as the furnace in him roared. His skin felt hot all over. “Excuse me, I have something to attend to. I’ll remember to put less sugar next time,” he said and left.

* * *

He should have stopped then.

He did not.

* * *

Da Vinci looked up from her work and smiled. “Back again for another lesson, Dantes?”

“On the contrary, I’ve a topic you’ll be interested in.”

“Really! So the student wants to become the teacher. Well, let’s hear it.”

Dantes did not love da Vinci, not in the way he had loved Mercedes. No dreams of domestic life were planted in his heart, no desire to sweep her in his arms seared him from inside. When they sat close to each other, their hands nearly touching, he thought not about the beauty she so proudly flaunted. It was her mind he was drawn to; her easy humor, her brightness, her experience in failing and being human. He wished to be a part of her journey, intimate as one would be with a brother, bound by bonds deeper than blood, for she understood him in ways that surprised him.

Now, they talked long and often. When Chaldea’s crises were handled, they discussed just about everything under the sun. Da Vinci brimmed with knowledge. And Dantes, ever hungry to know, was always eager to receive.

“Are you familiar with magecraft from the Age of Gods?”

“Do you know who you’re talking to? Yes, I’ve dabbled here and there. Recently, I’ve taken special interest in biblical miracles. It’s a natural progression, considering how I’m a Renaissance man.”

“What a coincidence,” Dantes said with a small smile, “for what I wish to discuss with you is one of God’s agents: the archangel Raphael.”

“Raphael, huh? I’ve always been fond of that name. What’s there to talk about?”

“Do you consider Raphael a divine being or a powerful magus?”

Da Vinci set down her pencil. She turned to face him and crossed her legs. “I get the feeling this is a trick question. You aren’t the sort of man to question faith.”

“Really? Despite my nature as a demon?”

“ _Especially_ given your self-proclaimed title as a demon,” da Vinci said. “Demons were once angels, something I’m sure you’re well aware of, Mister Agent of God. As far as other Avengers go, you’re pretty respectful around the saints.”

Respectful? The label made no sense, not when he made wide berths to avoid the devoted Servants. If he couldn’t avoid them, which often was the case with the persistent Jeanne or the sly Amakusa, Dantes spoke to them with great restraint, his bitter words leashed by years of self-denial and discipline. He shook his head.

“What I discuss with you is not a matter of religion but of practicality. Discerning the distinction between the two is key to living with contradictions, I’m certain you agree.”

There was a twinkle in da Vinci’s eye, the sort she got whenever she was well amused. Dantes caught on long ago that her smile was the Mona Lisa’s, not Leonardo’s. Inscrutiable, as a figure was with the sun in full bloom behind them. The _uomo universale_ of Chaldea always maintained a lovely face, with no emotions to trouble its painted surface. To truly understand her, one must read the light within her eyes.

Da Vinci said, “Alright, here’s my opinion. By this point, it doesn’t matter.”

“Elaborate.”

“Faith is the heart of all magic. Let’s see… yes, Santa Claus would be a good example. So long as a child believes, Santa Claus retains his powers, yes? What difference does it make if he’s an omnipotent magus or a sneaky old elf? Contrary to what others may feel, the truth is unnecessary.”

“I’m surprised to hear that from you.”

She laughed brightly. “Why’s that?”

“You represent humanity’s potential, its ability to reinvent itself. Uncovering the truth is key to invention, no?”

“You’re juuuust off the mark, Dantes. _My_ inventions are manifestations of what I’ve learned. Anatomy, physics, perspective. Yes, all manner of sciences and truths! But there’s more to life than knowing. Lessons in grief, in happiness, in love – the mysterious emotions that color humanity’s experience – oh, dissatisfaction, too.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you dissatisfied. Not in my company.”

“My, my, Count! I thought you wanted to keep your distance!”

The room felt a little warmer, for some odd reason. Dantes shook his head. “I said that in all earnestness. You of all people would never allow your creations to be marred.”

For the Mona Lisa was eternally smiling, with nary a hair out of place. Da Vinci understood him and dipped her head, her long lashes veiling her gaze.

“To believe in human ideals require a level of faith, don’t you think?” she said. “They’re questions that can never be solved, no matter how wise or all-knowing you are. Such is the nature of your archangel Raphael. He’s just like you and I: a shadow of humanity’s dreams.”

Dantes did not know what to say. “That’s not right,” he managed at last.

“Oh?”

“I am the shadow, the reaper humanity desires. A divine punishment, acting as a Fury would. But you, da Vinci – you are a star guiding the people. You cast light and do not cower from it as I do. You love and dream and hope, despite all else.”

The Mona Lisa’s smile melted. Da Vinci looked not at him but through him, and Dantes knew the man she saw in her mind’s eye. “So can you, Dantes,” she said. “Don’t write yourself off yet.”

* * *

Bit by bit, Dantes accustomed himself to the light of people. He was a shadow and he always would be, but even a shadow could stand beneath a summer sun. Ritsuka’s kindness, exemplified by how they always took their time to sit and listen to their countless Servants. Dr. Archaman’s diligence, which often led him to pass out in the control room after ceaseless days of work. Da Vinci’s wit, bright as a star and capable of needling a smile from Dantes every now and then. And Andersen, strange little man that he was, with the thirst of a Viking but the tolerance of a child.

They hid their stash beneath Andersen’s room. There was enough whiskey bottles to keep an entire festival drunk and, with Dantes’ resistance to poison, he was more than capable of drinking half the collection and feel nothing. Andersen, on the other hand…

“So I told him to fuck off!” The author flung open his arms and nearly lost his balance. “Christ, who is spinning this room?”

“You’ve hit your limit,” Dantes said. “Better concede before you puke it all up.”

“Concede? To _you_? Ha! Hand me another, I can take it!”

“Look at you. You can barely stand.”

Andersen drew himself to his full wobbly height. “So? I’m still standing, aren’t I? That’s the important part!”

Dantes simply watched and listened as his companion ranted on about some obscure Nordic poet. He dangled his half-empty bottle from his hand, between his legs, and let himself sink into the oddness of the present. To genuinely sit and talk and laugh were skills long rusted. He felt as though he wore an over-starched shirt, stiff in all his attempts at connection, closer to a jester than a friend, yet he couldn’t deny there was peace beneath it all. A quietness he thought he’d long lost.

“Andersen, shut up for a moment,” Dantes said.

“I’ll never shut up. Impossible request. Give me something else. Preferably alcoholic in nature.”

“Fine, then. Sit down, or I’ll make you.”

Andersen muttered something about empty threats but acquiesed with a red face. Servants were naturally contradictory spirits, yet Dantes has not adjusted to the strange complication of his companion’s form. Plenty of Heroic Spirits were renowned as child heroes, or they wished to return to simpler times. But Andersen— he was undoubtedly the same man he’d been at his life’s end.

“You’re looking at me,” Andersen said, and he made an irritated gesture. “Are you going to take my booze away? I don’t need you to babysit me! I’m a worthless bronze, but I’ll fight you tooth and nail for what’s rightfully mine.”

“Half the drinks are mine,” Dantes answered.

“Yeah? And _I’m_ going to drink _all_ of them.”

“Oh? I’d like to see you try.”

“Take a shit in a hog’s pen, King of the Cistern.”

Dantes threw his head back and laughed so hard his gut ached. Andersen’s scowl deepened.

“Do you know how hard it is for anyone to take me seriously?” the author spat. He pinched his own cheek. “Stuck with the looks of a brat! Were this a normal Grail War, it could have worked to my advantage. I could make baby eyes at whoever was gullible enough to fall for it and survived off strategic groveling. But here it’s, ‘Oh, Andersen, isn’t it past your bedtime? Oh, little boy, come here, don’t you want some candy?’ And worst of all, ‘Now, now, alcohol is for grown-ups, young man!’” He threw an empty bottle. “My voice is deeper than your balls, Archer!”

It was like Andersen to work himself up, no matter how large or little the problem was. Dantes listened to the performance with a reserved smile and said, “You think me so shallow a man I’d treat you by your looks? Perhaps your eye for people has begun to dull. I voice my concerns as your friend, not as your caretaker.”

He did not realize what he said until he saw Andersen’s face flush a deeper red. Only then did the full magnitude of his words punch him in the chest. A burning sensation seared the tips of Dantes’ ears, which he did his best to ignore with another swig of whiskey.

“You really think of me as your friend?” Andersen asked after a long silence, the question unbearably mild.

“You’re past drunk, Andersen,” Dantes said. “I’ll get you some water.”

And thank heaven above, for when he returned, Andersen was fast asleep, having passed out on the floor. Dantes bundled his too-small body in his cloak and carried him to the study. Only when he was certain the author was tucked in and wouldn’t puke all over himself did Dantes leave, grateful for the cover of darkness.

* * *

He should have known what he had wouldn’t last.

* * *

On the night of Romani Archaman’s sacrifice, da Vinci slipped away from the celebrations and into her workshop. Silent was the gramophone and dark was her room. Dantes entered as one of the many shadows cast by the dim glow of her candle. He could not see her face.

“I didn’t know I could still be so sentimental,” she whispered.

“What you feel is proof of your humanity.”

“Funny. I said that to him more than a few times. But here I am, hearing the same advice from you, of all people.”

The shadows stilled. “Should I leave?”

Da Vinci offered her hand to the darkness. He held it. If the Mona Lisa shed tears, he did not see, for he was only a passing shade offering the comfort of a silent, accepting void.

* * *

Enchanted by her light, Dantes forgot that even stars could fall.

There’d been a feeling of _wrongness_ partway through the journey. Reduced to his Saint Graph, Dantes’ senses were limited. He accepted the demerit after hearing da Vinci and Holmes’ plan, for it was always wise to prepare for contingencies. Magi were still men, and men could not be trusted. And he held faith in da Vinci’s foresight. Even if he were to give up his physical form – even if he must literally place himself in the questionable hands of Sherlock Holmes – he would hold fast to that faith.

So when the wrongness cut with its violent attacks, Dantes endured. He waited and hoped, though he felt as though he’d been thrown off deck by a wicked storm. For what seemed to be an eternity, he clutched to his trust to remain afloat of his cynicism.

And when he opened his eyes at last, it was in an entirely new world. Alien, bleached, dead. Panhumanity had been ripped from its roots. Master was safe, kept alive by sheer luck and determination. A few staff members survived the slaughter and all the Servants were accounted for, thanks to—

(did he really think his hands weren’t poison?)

Master needed the Count of Monte Cristo. Edmond Dantes was folded up and buried deep inside, so his howling wouldn’t leak out. Though all of him trembled, Avenger kept his hands steady as he took the young Master’s hands. Panhuman history has yet to be declared dead, he told the young girl. Wait and hope.

Have faith.

* * *

In the depths of hell, time was vital. Forget how long you’ve spent and you were spiritually adrift, lost to the demons lurking beneath the subconscious. Dantes is practical. Through reports and estimations and passing conversations, he pieces together that Chaldea has been fighting God for near two years now. The months are difficult to pin down but he does so with utmost precision. They cannot afford to lose their anchors of reference.

Da Vinci – yes, that was her name – to see her about the base is akin to seeing a ghost. All Servants were ghosts in their own ways, but this final creation of the _uomo universale_ , this child she gave birth to out of a final act of love, unsettled Dantes at times. It was in the way she echoed her original’s words without thought, how she was capable of drawing upon memories she’d never experienced. She must be aware of the effect she had on him, for she was always careful to be exceptionally kind and patient in his presence.

But Dantes could not open himself to the tenderness she offered, how she openly acknowledged him as ‘Uncle’ when no one else was around. It was not the child’s fault. Once bitten, twice shy. He was a wounded tiger who’d been haunted all his life by reminders of what he lost and he could not bear to look her in the eyes.

More and more, Dantes withdrew within himself. He did not lose hope. He was not permitted to, not when the world rested upon their shoulders, and the rage that churned in his gut when he thought of the Alien God was enough to keep him moving when all else failed. As da Vinci had done, so would he. He’d hate and hate and _hate_ enough to fill many hells over, so he could sink his claws into their enemies’ throats.

He mustn’t forget how much time has passed. He must keep track of how many days this Alien God had stolen from them and pay it all back in kind.

* * *

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re causing me?” Andersen growled.

The infirmary was meant for the injured and the healers, not nosy authors who couldn’t keep out of others’ business. Beneath the seared brim of his hat, Dantes glanced around. Asclepius, who normally couldn’t wait to get his hands on him, was nowhere in sight. Neither was Nightingale. It was likely that Andersen chased them off. Earlier, he heard a free-for-all shouting match just outside the doors.

“Have you mistaken me for one of your own stories?” Dantes said dryly. “I do not recall making you my keeper.”

“When you’re my partner on the field? Of course I’m going to be up your ass! I need you in your best shape or I’ll die!”

Dantes knew he was hideous if he looked as bad as he felt. A dislocated shoulder, with the arm broken in two places. Traces of the venom that ate away the fabric and skin on his back. Blood smeared upon his hands and face, the result of mutilating his enemies and his own body. This was the catalogue of damage Nightingale reported to him in her usual clipped manner. She missed how it felt as though stones were scraping his stomach, how it hurt to simply breathe. Even thinking came slow to him in hazy and haphazard starts.

Pain could be temporarily suppressed on the battlefield when there were foes to punish. And why shouldn’t he deny himself feeling? He was an Avenger. If it hurt worse later, that was all the better. He could take it because it was what he was summoned to do. Suffering only made his fire all the hotter.

“It’s not your place to order me around,” Dantes said, each word fighting to leave his throat. “If you are so concerned, request reassignment.”

Andersen looked as if he’d been struck. “No. No, do you think I’m the sort to leave something half-assed?”

“I am not some _thing_ , much less your ‘something.’ Treat me as yours, Andersen, and I’ll gut you where you stand.”

“Then get warmed up,” Andersen hissed back, “for that’s what you’ll have to do if you want me to shut up!”

“Do not play with me, you wicked leech!”

By God, how heavy his body was. But he has fought through worse. He _will_ experience worse, and he will bend this traitorous flesh to his wishes. With his good arm, he knocked the medical cart over. Metal crashed upon linoleum in echoing thunders and to his fury Andersen did not so much as even flinch.

“One hand will be enough to tear your insolent windpipe apart,” Dantes spat. “Test me not again, or I’ll nail your throat upon my door as a warning for all meddling authors.”

Andersen still did not look away. “What a sight for sore eyes you are. This is not where you want to be, Dantes.”

“You dare pretend to know me?!”

“So long as wildfires possess fuel and air, they can burn indefinitely. Isn’t that what you’d like to see yourself as? An uncontrollable flame? But mark my words: you are smothering yourself. It won’t be long before your pain can no longer sustain you.”

Dantes took a step closer. “I am warning you.”

“No,” Andersen said softly, “I am warning you.”

 _Rip him apart,_ the darkness within crooned. _He wishes to die. Grant him his wish. Bare your fangs and rend the flesh from his bones._ _Can you taste how hot his blood will be? Yes, that’s it, he has wronged you._

How loud his spiritual core whispered these days, always ready with sweet promises of oblivion. Wild beasts could hunt and kill without the weakness of human hearts. Wouldn’t it be a relief to relinquish himself? To lay down and permit his legacy to devour him whole? This could be the end of Edmond Dantes, for Edmond Dantes had no place here.

The stench of burning hair snapped him from his thoughts. In the reflection of Andersen’s wide eyes, Dantes saw tongues of fire. They crowned his ashen-gray hair in blackened flares and, bit by bit, swallowed his head in a flaming bud. _Good_ , thought Dantes as the world disappeared, _maybe I can rest at last_.

He was hot all over, the fire chewing at his bruised nerves, rekindling the signals into fresh agonies. This was the mythologie’s work. From marrow to skin, he was being transformed and he welcomed it. Fire was said to cleanse. Let it cleanse, then, all traces of the man he once was.

Shouting. The touch of someone’s hand over his, an agony greater than any act of violence. Instinctively, Dantes jerked away. He hit something solid – the wall? – heard leather shoes squeaking over tiles as they scrabbled for purchase. Still, the hand remained where it was. “Let go,” he croaked. “Let me go.”

“Wherever you go,” Andersen said, his voice far away, “I will go with you.”

How many people must fall into hell with him? How many must he lose? The bloodiest of torments and the worst of tortures – he would claim all them if only God would pardon his fellows. Father Faria. Concetta. Ali. Haydee. Da Vinci. How many more—?

That gentle hand held on with surprising strength, untouched by fire, unmarked by blood. No, he could not ruin him.

The mythologie’s fire went out. The first thing Dantes saw was Andersen’s face, dusted by soot and lightly seared by the heat. Determined, yet tempered by concern.

Then, his knees gave. He fell backwards, slammed into the medicine cabinet and onto the floor, his body surrendering to unconsciousness.

* * *

The moment Dantes saw Mercedes with her youthful, brown face he knew he was dreaming. Gone were the creases of weary years. She was as lovely and bright as when he had first seen her, dancing with her black hair thrown to the wind like a wedding veil.

“You are right,” Mercedes said. “This is only a dream. Still, what harm is there in enjoying it?”

Dantes breathed in slow. Even so, it still hurt. “I gave up the right to such memories long ago.”

They sat side-by-side on a rocky outcropping overlooking the shore. He knew this place as well as his own home. This was the cove near the Catalan village, where they’d often meet in secret when their love was still thrilling and novel. Once, Mercedes lost her shoe to the waters. Dantes had to carry her home in his arms, a sight her family gawked at. That was how her family learned of their relationship.

“You were such the gentleman,” she answered his thoughts.

“I no longer love you. At the end of everything, I left you to fend for yourself. Why are you here?”

“We were to be wed.”

“And you wed another.”

“I still loved you.”

The roar of the ocean echoed off the rocks. Dantes closed his eyes. “Love is wasted on a creature such as I.”

“Dumas didn’t agree.”

“And what is one author’s voice against the world’s? Against God’s? Leave me, Mercedes. If I look upon you, I will only hurt you. Pain is all the Count of Monte Cristo can give you.”

“I am already dead, Edmond,” Mercedes said with great gentleness. “Whatever you say to me will not hurt.”

Death was not a release. He of all people knew this, having walked the halls of an organization filled with ghosts. A Servant’s soul no longer belonged to the heavens but to humanity, and so long as humanity needed them, so they would remain chained. A thousand different ways to hurt awaited the dead. The words weighed on the tip of Dantes’ tongue but the thought of saying them to Mercedes sealed his throat. He swallowed hard.

“I know,” he said, and his voice quivered. “You’ve left this world long ago, to a place I cannot follow. The woman I speak to now – she is what I remember of her. What I wished to see in my darkest moments.”

“Yes. I’ve died but you – you have another chance at life.”

“Life! What life do you speak of!” Dantes tore at his hair and curled inward upon himself. “From the moment of my summoning, I was destined to be a demon! Every waking hour, I am beset by reminders of what I endured, of those who hurt me, of the blood I’ve stained my hands with. The very core of my existence, Mercedes, this foul thing in my chest that’s replaced my immortal soul, what horrible things it speaks into my ear! Rage— I can feel so much rage and it rises at even the smallest of slights, and I must hold fast to myself, to remember— remember, I am my own master. Yet I cannot recognize my own body, these eyes, these flames, these memories! I—”

So cold was the ocean spray that Dantes’ throat seized and his eyes stung. Wetness tracked down his cheeks.

“I am more specter than man,” he whispered. “A half-hollowed thing with only hatred to keep him alive. What life is there for me, Mercedes? I cannot see it. No, even if it were offered to me, I do not deserve it.”

“But here you are,” was her answer. “And incomplete as you may see yourself, you are still wanted. Not for the hell you are capable of bringing, but the hope you represent. Life isn’t handed out based on worthiness. It’s simply a roll of the dice.”

Dantes raised his head. Where Mercedes had sat, there da Vinci was, a true smile on her lips. “Take it from a genius,” she said, “if a man is capable of flying out of Hell, then he is capable of reaching the stars. Even if he needs a liiittle help with his wings.”

“You were summoned as your ideal,” Dantes said. “Do not think you and I as the same.”

“Ouch! I can’t deny that.”

He waited for another platitude but it never came. The silence eased the tightness in his chest, allowed him to breathe a little easier. He ran a hand through his hair and looked to the distant horizon.

“I sympathize with you on one point,” da Vinci said.

“What?”

“Out of the friends I had, only I was registered as a Heroic Spirit. At least, to my knowledge. It would be a little less lonely if I had Salai or Michelangelo with me, but… I’m not so selfish as to disturb their rest.” Her smile grew a shade sadder. “Servants like us are too special to be left truly dead.”

“There are some days I think of my existence as penitence.”

“Wouldn’t that be grand? The day humanity no longer needs us, we can truly move on.”

“… you truly are a part of my dream, for Leonardo would never have wanted such a thing.”

“Ha ha ha, a point for the Count! You really did know me!”

“And you, me.”

“Though, we would’ve had to put in a ton of work if we got together. You’re right on one point. I can’t understand what it’s like to live at the whims of others. Da Vinci is the self-made man, a genius among geniuses, beholden to no one! What a contrast that is to your baggage.”

Dantes shook his head. “I would not inflict my own problems upon others. I—”

“—don’t do things that way, of course. The Count of Monte Cristo must always keep his cards close to his chest. But have you ever considered there may be someone you share much in common with?”

“I seek not pity.”

“But you do want to be understood.”

Dantes remained silent.

“Think of your status as a Servant as punishment from God, if you’d like. But between you and me, I don’t think the big man up in the sky wants you to heap more on your plate. Part of you is Avenger and part of you remains Edmond Dantes. Call it luck, call it fate, whatever suits you. Just… don’t deny it as a chance, Edmond.”

* * *

It wasn’t long before they released Dantes from the infirmary. He had always healed quickly, thanks to his nature as an Avenger. Bruises, broken bones, lacerations – all were swallowed by his body’s regenerative abilities. So long as he held onto the will to fight, he could get up as many times as he needed to.

Wounds of the mind were another story. Some days, he wished he were a Berserker, lost to reason and doubt. Any other class would have made an eternity of service far more bearable. But Dantes was a man of practicality above all else. To pin his hopes upon an impossible wish was not his way of being, so he turned his sights to other mechanisms.

Chaldea’s Antarctic base at least provided a view. A miserable one, but it was proof of the world’s existence all the same. No such luxury existed in the Wandering Sea. What was there to see but a bone-white world, wrung of all life? The closest one could get to panhuman’s Earth was either the simulator or the greenhouse.

Dantes chose the latter.

A long, long time ago, Father decorated the windows of their humble apartment with lovely flowers. He was not the sort of man who cared for splendor and the sight of nasturtiums and clematis always plucked a nostalgic heartstring. The flowers Father loved were the common sort. Surely the greenhouse possessed a few sprigs?

Cannas divided the back of the greenhouse in fanned rows, glowing nectar gold beneath the flowering lamps. Standing beneath an arch woven with ivy was a too-small author in utmost concentration. He wove flowers into a wreath with surprisingly deft hands, each braid fixed with a gentle but firm tug. He looked up at the sound of Dantes’ footsteps. Stopped, and set his work down on the table.

“… you look better,” Andersen said.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

They looked at each other. Dantes’ fingers itched for a cigarette, to give him an excuse to keep his mouth busy and his mind calm. Now was the time to strike and end what little friendliness remained. He demonstrated himself a wild, unpredictable factor when Andersen visited his bedside. To cement the image would only take a few poisonous words.

Dantes drew in a slow, deep breath to steady himself. He gestured at the wreath. “I didn’t know you liked flowers.”

Stupid. Clumsy. What was he doing? Andersen’s eyebrows drew together as he tried to understand the comment.

“I was a sensitive little prick even as a young boy,” Andersen said. “All the kids in my village liked to romp about and play at war. I, like a truly deranged poet, preferred to spend my time weaving flowers and imagining up fairies to applaud my skills. I didn’t think they’d let you out so soon.”

“I was on my best behavior.”

“So the tiger can sit when he’s told.”

“I wish to apologize, Andersen.”

An incredulous look. “What?”

Weakness was death. Years in hell beat the lesson into Dantes. Everything and everyone could be taken away from him in the blink of an eye. Even his own life, in all its agonies and ecstasies, was a meal for the masses. What little belonged to Edmond Dantes was more precious than anything else and must be buried deep, where no one could touch them. If he kept his heart closed, nothing more could be taken from him. So what if he burned for something as simple as a hand over his? This was what he must do as Avenger.

Dantes couldn’t meet Andersen’s eyes. He turned away and plucked at the rough leaves of a nearby tree. “Cursed as my touch may be, I am the master of my power. I endangered you with my presence and for that, I am sorry. For a man of my caliber to lose control is shameful.”

“Dantes…”

“Let me finish, Andersen, I must say this.”

“No, no, you better not touch that. Those leaves are poisonous.”

Oh. The lamps above heated the tips of Dantes’ ears as he dropped his hand. “It matters not. I built up immunity to all poisons during my lifetime.”

“I don’t doubt you, but it’s still a stupid move to rub it all over your hand.”

“You are exaggerating.”

“I’m being the good Samaritan for once in my life and you’re throwing it in my face—”

“I am doing nothing of the sort! Will you cease your prattle!”

“You want me _not_ to commentate? You may as well ask a fish to grow lungs!”

Dantes ran a hand through his hair. “You— for God’s sake, I am extending you an invitation to tea.”

That finally shut Andersen up. He picked up his wreath and turned it around and around in his hands, as though his answer would shake itself from the colorful petals. “You don’t have to go so far to apologize,” he managed at last.

“I wish for your company. It’s not a matter of obligation.” How much easier it would be to rip open his own chest. “And… I would very much like it if you brought some flowers.”

There. It was said, vulnerable and likely to be picked clean to the bones. Dantes waited for the author’s scathing commentary, a quip about fire and monsters and false hearts, but it never came. Strangely enough, the crimson of the cannas reflected themselves upon Andersen’s face.

“If that’s what you insist. A guest is at the mercy of his host. What blooms does a demon from hell crave, anyway?”

“… nasturtiums and clematis will do.”

* * *

How was a ghost to continue living? The answer had been before him all this time, too bright for Dantes to directly look at. The joy other Servants found were not for him. Easing into mundanity was something he’d forgotten long ago when all he had to live upon were scraps of knowledge and his immense hatred. The chatter of the cafeteria, the chaos of the training rooms, the banter within the teams – they burned, foreign and familiar. Once upon a time, Edmond Dantes sailed the sea with his crew and lived as they had. If he knew he had the chance to live as Edmond again, wouldn’t he cease to be Monte Cristo?

The command center was quiet, the humming brain and heart of the Wandering Sea. Dantes found da Vinci examining figures from a holographic projection, the numbers streaming across as plentiful and bright as stars gliding across the night. She heard him before he announced himself and raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh? Hello, Avenger. You don’t come here often.”

“I limit my unnecessary trips,” he answered.

“Ve-e-ery pragmatic of you. Well, what can this little da Vinci do for you?”

“I was researching the inventions housed within this facility’s bunkers and found something that could be of use to Chaldea.” Dantes sat beside her. “I’d like your input.”

Da Vinci blinked. A large smile bloomed and, in that moment, he saw an entire galaxy of joy shine in her eyes.

“Well, well, well! You came to the right girl. Let’s see what we have here, hmmm?”

* * *

To live was becoming easier with each passing day. His core still whispered to him of violence and darkness, of danger and betrayal, how all of this couldn’t possibly stay and was a mere delusion that’d leave him weaker than before. But caught up between his friendly debates with Andersen, his lessons with da Vinci, and the tasks needed to keep Chaldea running, Dantes could push the voice down where it became only a tiny buzz.

His fire could not sustain itself off hatred alone. Not when he knew others wished to warm themselves beside it.

Something was growing between him and Andersen. He couldn’t put a name to it – perhaps he was still afraid to, for naming it granted the intangible power – but they sat together more often than not now, spent time arguing about everything from books to philosophy to whether tea or coffee was best. At some point, their conversations became as constant as the pull and push of the sea. And, when their hands rested a little too close to one another, Dantes found he did not protest.

Andersen cracked first. Mt. Penglai reminded him too much of what he’d been denied and he exploded in a fit of despair. Of _this story is not mine_ , of _this child’s body does not belong to me_. With Andersen’s hands clasped in his, Dantes understood in that instant.

“The Count of Monte Cristo is incapable of love, but I’ve knowledge of these matters. Let me say to you, Hans: write a story for yourself. Not for the public, not for others. Make it for your eyes only. Burn it afterwards, if you so like. But this form you desire must come from your pen, and your pen alone.”

“You think I haven’t considered that? That I haven’t tore my hair out over how to use my Noble Phantasm? I _know_ myself, Dantes, and I couldn’t give a rat’s shit about my story. There’s no one I despise more than myself!”

_Don’t deny it as a chance, Edmond._

“Then the solution is simple,” Dantes said. “Your story will be about you and I. I, Edmond Dantes, will aid you in becoming your own muse.”

* * *

In the candlelit twilight of Dantes’ room, Andersen undressed. His hands – now a proper man’s, no longer several sizes too small – worked the buttons with uncharacteristic clumsiness. Fingers that once deftly wove words and flowers alike stumbled over one another. Dantes reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

“Take your time, Hans.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s your company I want above all else.”

“I know, I know.” Andersen wet his lips. “But I want you to see.”

His shirt was tossed aside. Dark as it was, the marks of innocent monster were impossible to overlook. Andersen’s arms seemed closer to petrified wood than skin with how heavy the burn scars were and the glimmer of fish scales trailed from the edge of his stomach down. This close, Dantes could hear how shallow his companion’s breathing grew.

Dantes took his tense hand and brought it to his lips. Andersen didn’t stop him. He moved in, teeth grazing over his pale neck and felt the buzz of Andersen’s whine. And when he pinned his wrists to the wall, his body pressed flushed against his, close enough for him to feel Andersen’s erection between them, the heat that flooded Dantes’ blood at last felt right. He slipped his hand down.

“Edmond, Edmond,” Andersen gasped, robbed of all his pretty words. Dantes liked that. With one hand, he undid the pants. Touched the heated shaft with the cool leather of his fingers, eliciting a whimper from his lover.

“How does this feel?” Dantes squeezed and slid his palm up towards the head. Andersen’s hips jerked. “Come now, I’d like to hear it from your own mouth.”

“Fuck off, asking me to _think_ with your hand on my dick—”

“To the contrary, I don’t want you to think. In fact—” Dantes began to pump his hand in a steady, fast rhythm. Within seconds, he saw the familiar wet shine of precum dribbling down. “—I’d rather you beg for me.”

Like this, there was no room for doubts, for _Is my body alright?_ or _Do you really want me?_ , questions Dantes knew like old foes and wished to banish. Andersen burned against his touch. The author covered his mouth with his free hand, as if that could keep his cries from escaping. But Dantes could hear each and every muffled sound he made, felt them hum beneath his lips whenever he kissed his throat.

“Please,” Andersen murmured, strained, and his hand flitted to Dantes’ chest. “Edmond, I want— I want to see you, too.”

No one could touch him as the Count of Monte Cristo. But perhaps as Edmond—

Dantes breathed in slowly and bared himself.

When it was all over, Andersen hid his face in the crook of Dantes’ neck, the gentle ins and outs of his breathing hot against the skin. How long had it been since he’d held someone like this? For so long, Dantes’ body bore the lashes of fire and violence. It was what he needed to shape himself into a demon capable of damning others. Roughness, rejection, hatred – those, he could handle. He knew not what to do with this strange, fragile touch shared between them.

Did he still remember how to touch someone? Could he let himself have that much? Dantes willed his hand to move. No hellfire wreathed these fingers, no shadows separated skin from skin. How strange his own hand felt, as though it were another’s. He brushed his palm upon the uneven ridges of Andersen’s bare back, then slid it up to let his fingers curl ever-so-slightly into his hair.

“Ugly, aren’t I?” Andersen said.

“You kept these scars for a reason,” Dantes answered. “That alone makes them important.”

“They signify a complex.”

“And your readers’ affection, twisted as it may be.”

Andersen laughed, the sound a low hum against Dantes’ shoulder. Comforting, like the purring of a cat. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“They don’t bother me, Hans.”

“Alright.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“… you’re misunderstanding me. I’m a pessimist who’s given up on unconditional love. I can’t see the beauty in what I have. But…” Andersen pulled back. “If you can see me as I am and still keep me close, who am I to dictate your feelings?”

With his thumb, Dantes drew small circles on Andersen’s nape, testing this newfound intimacy. All of this felt ill-fitted, actions better suited for another man. A better man. “That’s right. I won’t listen if flagellate yourself.”

“I’ll still tell you the truth, though, since that’s all I’m good for. Your tastes in men are shit, Edmond Dantes.”

“You are not much better, Hans Christian Andersen.”

Andersen smiled. “Naturally,” he said. “I’m an author.”

This life could be different, for Chaldea was a place of possibilities. There would be time to learn tenderness again, to remember the tender things lost to the fires and darkness of Chateau d’If, before the world cast him aside to be reborn as a monster. Though the Throne of Heroes summoned him to hate as the Count of Monte Cristo, he ached to learn to love again as Edmond Dantes.

Andersen looked at him as though he were the spring sun come out at last after winter’s end. A thing of beauty. The softness hurt more than anything Dantes ever had to bear, but he would adjust to it. He would grow in all the ways he thought a dead man had no right to.

And when Andersen kissed him, hard and sweet, Dantes did not flee. He stayed and felt his heart warm in his presence, in this story for them and them alone.


End file.
